JailBreak
by Andrea Churchill
Summary: Hmm...what if Alisha from T.I.A. was put in jail?


I can still feel the cold bars and concrete walls, and the breeze against my face that one day. I remember the first thing I felt when I opened my eyes was the bitter cold that had locked within me. I stared at the concrete ceiling, and then turned over to greet the concrete wall that showed the scraped lines I made to indicate how many days I had spent here. Closing my eyes again, I shifted myself in a bundle, trying to warm myself up. I had no blankets, no pillows, no heat, nothing. Just the clothes on my back. I tried my best to picture myself in a beautiful, warm place with a comforting, soft bed to lie on rather than this firm, stained one. I pictured a feast of all my favorite foods to knock out the hunger that dwelled inside my stomach. Unfortunately that made me hungrier. I could hear footsteps in the corridor, making their pattern toward my cell. Breakfast, I hope.

The loud, but familiar bang introduced itself before a guard came in, letting all the light blind me. I groaned.

"Get up." He barked.

I groaned some more. "What time is it?"

"It's half past three. Now get!" He smacked me on the back with his club…hard.

"Ow…" I said, as low as possible. I guess it wasn't time for breakfast anyway. No wonder I was hungry…I had missed it hours ago. Then I opened my eyes slowly and saw the guard standing there, waiting for my attempt. Then I saw a tray of burnt eggs, almost burnt toast, and a small glass of water in a clay cup sitting on a bench in the far corner. _Oh look, breakfast…_

I stood there, my sweaty self in my sweaty clothes in this smelly place. Gosh was I in a bad mood. He shouldn't have woken me up. My dreams have been the only thing that has kept me from going crazy like the other lunatics. This one guy in the cellar next to me keeps yelling something about some lost temple of a guy named Montezuma, while my other neighbor just keeps shaking and rocking back and forth in a corner and gets all twitchy whenever someone says the name of a weapon. Freaks…

But sometimes, my dreams make me one. The thing is, when I have dreams, they seem to come true… which I try to tell the guards, but they never listen. Once I dreamt of someone breaking out, and someone did. Who, I'm not sure. I've been having this one dream lately about these strange group of people rescuing me, but then I need to be rescued from them. It was so dark and cold in my dream, yet so bright and happy. I had it again last night…or this morning I guess, but the guard woke me up.

"All right, you wicked wrench, your coming with me."

Wicked wrench? Are you kidding me?

I walked alongside the watch over, passing ole' Montezuma man and Twitchy to the main office, which seated the deputy and his apprentice. At least, that's what I thought the kid was.

"Miss Dover."

"Mr. Dougherty, Mr. Harris."

"How long do you think you've been staying here, exactly?" His eyes played me as he lay atop his large chair. Mr. Harris looked nervous.

"I must say I'm not sure, sir. A while, I presume."

I darn well knew exactly how many days it's been. Three whole months. But saying that would be talking back to the deputy, talking smart, or fresh. And that's a darn good way to get a smacking.

"Three months."

"Oh."

"Do you remember how long you were to stay here?"

"No sir."

Three months.

"Three months." He said.

"I see."

He made some kind of noise, almost like a mixture between a sigh and a grunt as he attempted to get out of his chair and stand up. A big man, he was. I could bet he would die from being too large, for his health must be tremendously terrible.

"You are to be let out today at precisely in one hour. You are to go back to your cellar and collect your things."

"You have my things, sir."

He raised his eyebrows, pretending to act surprised, or to remember.

"Oh yes, that's right." He looked over to Mr. Harris.

"Eh, Dunkin, go to the vault and collect Miss Dover's things."

"Yes sir."

He looked back at me as Mr. Harris unlocked the vault and we smiled, hiding our dislike for each other. Well, it's not that I disliked him, he was a fairly good man, but he just had a very unlikeable occupation.

Mr. Harris came to me with my things, and smiled at me. A real smile. Not a fake one, hiding nothing, but a real, true smile.

"We're going to miss you."

I smiled back, meaning every bit. "I know."

The guard motioned for me to leave, but as I was just about to walk through the door, the deputy stopped me.

"So I hope you have learned your lesson."

Those words…ohh, those words! They burned my very soul! I turned around slowly, and matched up with his eyes. They laughed, mocking and suffering my past imprisonment. I looked over to Mr. Harris; his eyes were silent, as they should be. I could see he was almost as tired as I was.

"You can bet on the sheriff that I learned something one way or another."

He raised his head. "Good." He seemed cautious…not his eyes, they still mocked me. Insulting, but still mocking.

The guard, silent and serious the entire time walking back, escorted me to my cellar, but this time he didn't lock it. He just stood outside for the last time.

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That hour went fast. I think I spent the whole time looking out the window and staring at the same blossomed tree behind the jail. It's been the only thing I could see alive and happy through those last months, the only thing that was free and beautiful and open to the world. I could feel the warm breeze of the English air brush against my face through the rusted bars. I could smell the musk of the rainy, damp atmosphere London lived in. I thought about where I would live after this, how I would make money to live after this, why I would want to live. But then I looked at that tree, blossoming and bursting with pretty pink flowers, and after seeing it through the rough times in the winter, when it was bare and naked, I thought to myself that I was that tree…that my winter was over…and it was my time to bloom.


End file.
